amours infernales
by giannoula
Summary: it unnerved him, this emotion. but her mortality, her inevitable death if he did nothing, frightened him so. — or, Father in his beginning years meets an ambitious, vivacious mortal by the name of Dante.


**note;** i recognize that dante was originally a redhead prior to transferring her soul multiple times – but i make the rules here and i say that her image as lyra is iconic, and is therefore her visage in this universe and that is that. anyways here's a fucked up broho au for the best bad mom / bad dad duo ever.

. . .

She is the first human interaction he has had since parting ways with Hohenheim.

If one could call that a parting of ways – it's a matter of perspective, and theirs are varying in degrees – but he has been so consumed with curiosity since gaining a proper body, since gaining _freedom_ , that he has not thought properly of the slave since. Instead he fixates on his sensations, taking in sights and sounds, absorbing and savoring taste, but touch. Touch is the one which overstimulates him, leaves him mad. Never satisfied, he longs for more, so much more. There is knowledge to be consumed, books to be read, experiments to be studied, crafts to be perfected; yes, his hands are shaking, shaking with excitement at the mere thought of it.

Never again, he had thought at that time. It was a sworn, unspoken vow. Never again would he be contained, restrained by the limitations of this realm whether physical ( like a flask ) or metaphorical. No laws, no morals would ground him. Freedom was in his grasp now, and he had no intentions of letting go of the marvelous sensation.

He cannot recall when exactly he met her, or the circumstances that which led to their meeting. Was it a chance encounter? It must have been, for he was seeking no one and no one – no one, aside from perhaps, a remorseful and righteous Hohenheim – had any reason to seek him. Yet there she was, standing before him in her tattered rags that could be called a garment and bright eyes an unusual shade of violet, with a look within them as though he was the answer she sought.

 _Curiosity_. He recognized it in a fellow individual; the giveaway was the hunger pang, and she appeared starved. She was a young and delicate thing then, marveling at the smallest of this world's so-called miracles.

"Teach me," she'd begged – ruby red lips and raven hair framing her face, she was undeniably beautiful ( it left him with a tightening of his chest, and anger in his mind for becoming so distracted ) – as though she had nothing left to live for. "I want to know all that you know."

He was amused. She was young, but she was mortal. He had all the time in the world to know all that there was to know, but she hardly had enough time to learn all that he already knew. But she seemed willing, persistent at that. If she hadn't intrigued him beforehand then he would have shooed her away by now.

"You wish to become my apprentice?" he'd teased, brows raised. He imagines his references from Xerxes would not have a kind review, and his only student thus far had run off, but aside from that he considers himself a fine teacher.

He cannot remember the time and place, no. But he can remember the fire in her eyes, one which no elements could extinguish. Her demeanor had changed from meek and unassuming flirt, instead flickering to the face of a determined spirit.

"No." she'd replied, bolder than beyond her years. "I wish to become your equal."

. . .

He learns of the laws in this particular region, the limitations restricting women of their capabilities beyond that of marriage and childbirth. To even consider educating a girl properly, to prioritize her over a son is unheard of. Let alone allowing her to master alchemy; there were outrageous citations from blasphemous medical texts, claiming that the practice of alchemy would affect her faint heart and render her infertile. He had not laughed, only shook his head in dismay.

Fools, what utter fools. How could this species expect to progress if they were limiting one half of their own kind? The humans were so blatantly, stupidly flawed. It was no wonder it had taken them as long as what it had in evolution, and he anticipates it will take them twice as long before advancing to a modern stage at this rate. Fools, all of them.

Except her.

She did not have a flattering background by any means, no privileges that enabled her a boost over the curb which enabled some women to maneuver past the obstacles they're presented with ( he learns from her that there are some women; some, but they can be counted on one hand alone ) and so she improvised. She taught herself to read, sounding out the words aloud to herself from signs and tablets, and taught herself arithmetic from venturing into the marketplace and negotiating prices. Her writing needs improving, granted, but it is impressive in itself considering her only source of practice was her finger maneuvering against a dirt floor.

Above all else, she never stops asking questions. She never stops wondering about the mechanisms of something, how it functions and why it was created. There is always a purpose, she says, she believes in it like a prayer. Anything can be justified so long as there is purpose.

( When he asks her if knowledge is worth a kingdom's sacrifice, she says yes without hesitation. She is feverent, a flash of bitterness in her eyes over this wretched land that has tried to ground her because of her birth, and she has a likeness to him. )

. . .

Dante, that is her name. It flows off the tongue melodiously despite the unusual sound of it.

Most women he has encountered have fragile, flowery names or archaic, feminine namesakes based off their fathers and forefathers.

( _Dante,_ he recites like an unspoken prayer and secretly revels each time she says it. )

. . .

At seventeen, she is ever at his side. Always attentive, her mind never strays whenever he speaks. She never strays far from him, for he is her sole opportunity to a magnificent life. He imagines that she was well-liked beforehand by the townsfolk, but she has detached from all of them in a mere matter of days. They are irrelevant, and their only intent would be to hold her back should one consider taking her hand in marriage.

At eighteen, they collect series of published scripts and scrolls together. She reads them all at least twice, eyes hungrily devouring the details and memorizing the lines. But it's more than memorization, he reminds her, it's understanding the depth. And so she reads once more, for the third time. She's an ever obedient little thing, always on top of her assignments and energetic, no matter the hour. In some ways, she is akin to Hohenheim. But she is otherwise different, vastly different with her enthusiasm.

At nineteen, she has successfully manipulated the elements through alchemy. Day and night, night and day, she had practiced with the determination of perfecting the craft. He'd stood from behind and watched, unspeaking but eyes softly aglow with pride. But it was something of a first; pride in another's efforts. A humbling yet, at the same time, troubling sensation to feel.

At twenty, she has successfully conjured material entirely on her own. When her work is accomplished, she is full of childish glee and thanking him graciously – as she always has, since the beginning of this mentorship – but there is something different about this occurrence. She'd taken his hands in a sheer moment of excitement, and it elicited an electrifying sensation from his own nerves. It'd startled him to the point that he'd almost shoved her away, had he not kept his composure. It was at this point in time, he began to wonder what he would become of her.

And it was at this time she began to notice that he never quite seems to age.

. . .

"I know what you are." she announces to him one night, entering his quarters with her arms behind her back. He looks up slowly, settling his book onto his lap. His normally indifferent features pique, enticed by those vague words and her determined expression.

"Do you?" he inquires, edging for her to continue with this apparent proclamation.

"A demi-god." she closes her eyes as she annunciates the word, and appears rather smug in doing so. It is as if she has solved a riddle which he never said, but had left open to the challenge. And when she unfolds her hands, she presents him with a scroll that is religious text, possibly from her region. He forgets, oftentimes, her homeland is polytheistic. A sharp contrast to Xerxes or even the humble followers of Ishvala.

Dante doesn't even need to open the scroll itself before she begins reciting the lines, with that flawless memory melded mind. "The byproduct of a human and a deity. A being of partial divine status that is all but immortal, incapable of physically aging. They are notably wise and abnormally beautiful. And – "

She is unable to finish her sentence, as she is cut off by his laughter. _Laughter_ , real and vivacious laughter coming from him. Her words trail softly into an abrupt halt, cheeks flustered with a twinge of pink.

And, it would seem, she does not share his humor this time. "Am I wrong?"

At last, he rises from his seat as the laughter dies down. Oh, he had not anticipated to lavish in such humor. But truly, it has been far too long since he was last properly entertained like that. But the time for play has ended. He approaches her, tentative at first because of her displeased expression. But then, his hands cup her face and he can visibly see her tense at once in shock.

"Dante," he says to her – her name a solemn prayer, the only one besides his own that he will ever utter – and looks intently into her eyes. "I am nothing partial; one day, I will _become_ God."

A smile is plastered on his face, it is genuine and almost unsettlingly sweet. His hands, calloused by alchemic experience, are delicate in their hold of her as though she were a broken winged bird. She is led to believe he will kiss her in this moment, but he does not. Regardless, she is also led to believe him on that vow. In fact, she is holding onto it.

"Would you have me at your side, when that day of reckoning comes?" she asks, so sudden and rendered breathless by his chill-inducing hold. Once more, he is taken by surprise. But there is no humor in the gleam of those golden eyes. He seems startled, as though he has been reminded of her mortality. The truth is he was always aware of it, but had taken little thought to the implications of it for this situation. She has aged in this short time under apprenticeship; he has witnessed the last remnants of girlish youth fade and blossom into womanhood. What will he make of her when lines form and become permanent on her face and her hair is all but gray? Will he dispose of his sole company when she is too sick and old to conjure alchemy with her weak, fragile, bone-thin hands? No, he decides. No, he will not watch her flesh fade and rot.

He is to be god. This world is to be cleansed and reborn by his hand, with every deciding factor determined by his judgement alone. If that is so, then by his final word he decides he will keep her; she will become humanity's exception.

No.

She will become something better; something akin to him.

"Yes." he utters at last, and that is the second utmost important vow – beside his main one of achieving godhood – that he intends to see through.

. . .

Her demeanor changes henceforth. Suffice to say, their interactions seem to change entirely as well. Never one to be meek in the first place, she grows more confident in approaching him; except that her intents go beyond questioning and mentorship. She touches him with trembling fingertips, a tremor he realizes that has little to do with fear itself.

Desire is a strange concept to him. He recognizes it, and acknowledges it for what it is. And while he has inherent desire itself, they are primarily goal-based as opposed to physical. Hohenheim had unspoken dreams of the latter – a beautiful wife, a loving family. All humans have that innate desire; given it is a significant aspect of their existence, their sole reasoning to continue existing. But _intimacy_ …. intimacy is strange to think of, or rather overthink as he does.

It could lead to attachment, a selfish one at that. He is concerned for himself as is when it comes to the subject of her, how he has thrown everything off track for the sake of discovering a method to keep her alive – one that is a more convenient means than purging an entire kingdom overnight, although he isn't against resorting the idea either if he has to once more.

. . .

Ironic, for a man who intends to purge himself of all his vices.

( He contemplates for a time as to whether or not he should rid himself of the sin of lust first as opposed to pride, for it may be more dangerous than he anticipated. )

. . .

On the eve of her twenty first birthday, she gives herself entirely over to him.

She appears before him donning a loosely tied white robe and nothing more. And when she slowly peeled the layers back to unveil her pale body, he felt something that can only be closely described as tongue-tied. Never before had he thought of her in this manner, never had he wondered of her skin.

She is porcelain, complimented by the raven hair of her frame which drapes at her shoulders, the wisps of it reaching the beginning of her chest. Her eyes stare intently at him, mouth parted slightly. It is at this particular time he has taken the opportunity to notice that there is not a single flaw to be found on her face – no uneven surfaces, no wrinkles, no blemishes, no scars – and no marking, save for a single mole on her cheek. His eyes trail downwards, only because of her urging for him to do so from the look in her eyes, and so he obliges to observe the rest of her bare body. Her breasts are apple-sized, modest and appear soft to the touch, rose colored buds hardening against the rather frigid temperature of this room. What's worse is the thickening tension, which one supposes it could be cut with by a knife. The robes drape no further than the length of her waist, her hands tied in knots against one another to prevent themselves from fidgeting.

"Will you have me tonight?" she asks, ever coy with fluttering, delicate lashes and a virgin's blush. A part of him wishes to scoff. If there is one thing she has never been, it is timid.

Greediness within comes alive like a ferocious animal being uncaged. He will take her, all of her entirely on this night. He will not pretend to have experience in this manner, but he moves swiftly and wordlessly towards her. Once more, his hands have cupped her face before meeting her mouth with his own; in his arms she is his amusement, his pet. He has kept her for far longer than ever intended, and now he imagines that this is what seals her fate entirely to his.

Interlocked in this dance, she is for once, the teacher and he, the student. She is the one who guides him to the curve of her hips as she rocks slowly, her body mesmerizingly rhythmic. It dawns on him by now that he has long underestimated her wit. And that he, perhaps, is not the first man she has ever been with.

( Perhaps that is so – but she has certainly never been with an aspiring god. )

"Dante – " he murmurs his voice a guttural groan. He thought he was used to this body by now, having entire control of his limbs and all the nerves and sensations which come with it. As it turns out, he was quite wrong. And he has never experienced a situation in which he has lost control of himself, but that is exactly what is transpiring. He can feel himself becoming undone in her hold ( no longer his hold, no longer in control – it is the only time he has ever been content with a lack of freedom, in an essence ) and buried within her heat. " _Dante_."

A smirk appears on her face, one unlike any other that he has seen before on her face. This one is not doll-like nor childishly smug, this one is triumphant. She is the conqueror atop him, the experienced master watching her naïve student come apart as he climaxes. On this night alone, it is he who does the worshipping.

. . .

( He won't go as far as to refer to her as a goddess; there is only one title reserved, and it is for him alone. )

. . .

She's wanted him for quite some time, but she's wanted power for as far back as she can remember. She was an insatiable child always yearning for things that were beyond her reach, never meant to be hers. But never was she labeled as spoiled – she had quite the extraordinary talent in pulling off disguises, especially that of sweet-faced maidens.

Once, she had thought that her best chance was through an old, wealthy suitor that she could smother in his sleep and it would be deemed a death by natural causes. An inheritance would be left behind in her name as the widow, and from thereon she would establish herself with her newfound wealth. It was not a particularly pleasing thought, imagining herself lain with a vile, old man, but it was what would have to be done to take her to greater places. A sacrifice naught in vain – her innocence exchanged for profit, for a voice in a society that otherwise cared not to listen to her.

Then she found a mentor. Then she found a would-be god. Her plans had changed entirely and suddenly the world's knowledge was within her grasp, suddenly eternity no longer seemed to exist only in the bliss of dreams. Never before had she realized she longed for something as badly as this, the ability to size the reigns of life. Oh, the chance to spitefully outlive her foes and to become part of some greater than anyone could ever dream.

Her disdain towards her society had expanded further into a disdain towards her own humanity; humans themselves were selfish, subjecting themselves to foolishness for their own pleasure and oftentimes becoming a victim to their own vices. It was disgusting, watching this pattern occur over and over again. He once confessed to her that he has not been alive for that much longer than her, but already he has seen for a fact that humanity is incapable of ever bettering themselves. She felt disgust at herself, at her own putrid blood and fragile flesh. Here was a god at her fingertips, shuddering at her touch, all hers – but only for a time. When her beauty fades, what then?

No. Such a thing could never come to be. Eternity was going to be blessed unto her and by him no less. She would forever disassociate herself from humanity, cutting all ties from it. She decided she would be at his side the day he achieved godhood and cleansed the world – as he so often told her, as she had dreamt of since then – and she would witness it's rebirth. She would be like him.

Daresay, she would be _better_ than him – if she could find a way to tame the unruly man lurking within that he otherwise tried to pretend didn't exist.

. . .

The rumors swirling about regarding the sudden demise of Xerxes are too fresh. And in any case, the population of her homeland is not enough to make a sufficient, second, independent philosopher's stone. Sure, a stone would be created but it would more than likely have a short lifespan. A sudden failure to function would lead to her imminent death. He must be cautious, his decisions sharp and unfailing. And he will not throw away all of his ambitious plans for her eternal companionship, because she would never be enough to satisfy him.

But she is a sense of permanence, something promising, and though that scares him, the thought of her inevitable death otherwise frightens him more so.

He recalls his plans of purging himself of his vices. Only by that route will he become a perfectly balanced being, one step closer to achieving his plans. Can he really transfer one of those aspects of himself unto her? Even if so, would it taint her? He cannot imagine transferring his pride onto her – that cold arrogance would ruin her demeanor, her vivacious spirit he finds so bemusing. Worse, what if that arrogance fueled devious ideas in her mind to overthrow him? If such arrogance had been enough of a motivational factor for him to destroy an entire kingdom, there is no telling what it would enable for a woman scorned by her society.

There must be another way.

. . .

She grows impatient in the meantime. She observes her features in the mirror some nights and grows delusional, her paranoia would be considered outrageous by anyone else. But she fears that the way a shadow may fall upon her face is actually an indication of the start of a line along her face, or a stray strand of hair brightened by sunlight's exposure is the first signs of greying. Had the constant chemical exposure with practicing alchemy worsened her appearance?

He assures her that she is beautiful. But it sounds as though he is only parroting words to satisfy her, she does not believe him. His definition of beauty contrasts hers in any case. It reminds her of an old tale she heard growing up in her village – a golden boy who dreamt of the sky, who adored the sun far too much. Yes, she remembers, the golden boy with his otherworldly ambitions and sense of bravery that enabled him to touch the sun; and it reciprocated his advances by burning him. But some of the elders told it differently, some of them said he became a part of the sun.

He is the golden boy of her stories, his definition of beauty is above and beyond his reach at this given moment. There is no telling what will happen then, which version this story will end. She is not the sun, she was not blessed with tawny hair and gold gleaming eyes as he was. With her dark hair and unusual eyes, she thinks of herself as the night instead.

( Once, he tells her that when he intends to swallow god, he will reach his other hand forth for the sun and present it to her – there will be eternal darkness then, and the sun nothing more than a jeweled orb for her to decorate. )

Those all sound very pleasant indeed. But she does not crave the sun and stars, and the night sky bores her ( she has studied astrology in these past few years; the stars are all too familiar patterns to her for now with a rather dull twinkle ) and she will not be satisfied, not until she knows she is going to last as long as all of them.

"I want to be beautiful forever." she reminds him one night, her voice a heavenly sigh. She kisses him right at the crook of his neck, right at the spot where she figures a nerve may lay – he always tenses whenever her mouth is atop it, and now he is seizing a handful of her hair in the process. He yanks her back, unusually brutish behavior in these intimate dances, and there is a look in his eyes. It is great determination, coupled with irritation from her persistent behavior, but it is the look of a man whom she wholly believes will seize the world.

"You will be." he avows with grit teeth and the ferocity of a man willing to sacrifice thousands for the sake of one ( for himself, that is ) and then some.

. . .

When he tells her that he is in the midst of commencing the plan to immortalize him, her response is blatantly unexpected; "I love you."

Violet eyes piercing directly into his soul, her words impassioned, she almost sounded like a poet. But she was not spewing artistic gibberish. There was depth to words like those, and it weighed upon him like the stones which would sink a soul into the river. Few things in this world startled him, in fact he would argue almost nothing frightened him save for the thought of being forcibly returned to the abyss. But these words were a weapon she was unknowingly wielded, a dagger thrust onto him.

Oh, but she did so knowingly. His mouth was agape, incapable of responding. Good, it was just as she had intended. All of her fears of him growing bored of her were now assured in this instance.

. . .

Love, he thinks, is a poison. A sweet tasting poison – one of honey, the taste on her mouth and found between her legs – and perhaps a slow working one at that, but a poison nonetheless. It would kill him all the same if he were mortal.

He is not, thankfully. He is wholly and superior and he will ensure that. Luckily, it will now be to her benefit – for he has found the perfect way to grant her immortality and to rid himself of an imperfection. And he must do so soon, not because of her growing impatience.

( Because he loves her, he realizes, and it startles him so. )

. . .

Dante is aware of the possibility of dying, but she has no intention of doing so. One as fiercely determined as she does not simply crawl her way up to the top on bleeding hands and knees, fuck her way to the top with a god, only to merely perish in an experiment gone wrong. No, she will go to war with her own body if she must, with only her sheer will and wits as her weapons. She is determined to survive this procedure, and prosper at that.

Immortality, she can practically taste it upon her lips – it holds a lingering taste of his, to be frank – and now it is within her reach. It will enter her bloodstream, tear her apart and relinquish her of the woes of humanity. Her heart is racing, she imagines this is the last time she will ever feel that sensation. Suffice to say, she cannot find herself coming to possibly miss it.

In a rare act of affection, he takes ahold of her hand and kisses the top of it.

He can sense the tremors in it, but again, not of nervousness. She was never meek, never timid, never unyielding. This is of exhilaration, and he does not even need to ask her. She has longed awaited this.

The last memories of Dante's humanity are spent witnessing the stone that which he has purged from himself be injected into her. She must have held her breath then, anticipating only the pain of the needle breaking skin. How wrong she'd been, how foolish of a decision that'd been. She cannot remember what follows thereafter save for a few pieces. There was a fire, one which traveled in her bloodstreams and spread throughout her entire system. It was purging her of any and all weaknesses, strengthening viable organs, morphing her into something superior to a human. It was a white-hot sensation of pain, and she was screaming until her throat was raw and bleeding. Her back arched, limbs coiling and body twisting constantly. She was a ragdoll being tossed about by the forces which were disintegrating her mortality. Red was her line of sight. Red was all which her vision would show. Between the violent flashes of lightning and her own blood retching, red was the primary color which she would come to associate with this event.

He stood by idly, she remembers now in her blurred vision. For only the briefest moment did she look upon his face and see cold indifference, his mouth a thin line. He was anticipating her survival, and that more than likely explains the lack of sympathy to her agonizing plight. It need not be wasted for someone that was not truly suffering. After all, this was what she had wanted.

The screaming subsided eventually. He cannot say for sure how long the procedure had taken. Realistically, it could have been minutes. Although he's certain if he were to ask her sometime, she will say it was a dreadful number of hours turning into days turning into eternity. A reasonable enough answer in hindsight.

Dante was alive. The slow rise and fall of her chest was sufficient evidence of this. Even then, she continued to be more active despite his assumption she would be unconscious. Perhaps he had, once more, underestimated her. There was a twitch of her arm, a hand brought to her face at once to wipe the bloodstains off her face. Only come to find that there was none. At first she couldn't understand it, lifting her hand up higher into her line of sight with her vision slowly clearing, and there was only a pale hand to display. As she started to move, the slightest twitches of red lightening flickered off her body and promptly died. Rather than pain, it left a ticklish feeling in place, and she would have laughed were she in the mood to do so. Instead, her throat is still rendered raw. Limbs still sore, it was a difficult series of trials and errors to force herself to sit up, and in doing so she'd taken her first gasps of a reborn life; she hadn't expected to take in an overwhelming number of scents all at once – between the simmering smoke and waft of burnt flesh, the odor of lingering chemicals from washed beakers and burettes, to even the faraway scent of fresh air-dry cleanliness on her clothes – it was breathtaking.

Minutes had passed of continuous breathing before she realized she no longer had a beating heart. A hand was pressed under her breast, searching for the familiar marching beat. There was none to be found. In it's place, she assumed, was the magnificent stone instead or a hybrid of it and the organ.

And then, all at once, she could feel _everything._

Active souls all at once, lives taken far too early and violently, squirming and struggling. For what? Their purposes were to exist now for the sake of this stone, for her. There was no resurrection, no redemption for any of them. Although hard to do so, she swallowed it down like foul bile. Shaking, still shaking. She could feel their sorrow and their grief, their suffering which left an indescribable sensation coarse through her in turn. Their outcries, their voices were all meaningless to her and so she tuned them out with ease. Another emotion was present, a far stronger one in turn. It could not simply be described as happiness, no, it was something of a different degree despite being content with her survival.

She looked to him, and in that instance, she knew what it was; _love._

Dante had said it once before, in fact she had said it to him multiple times. But there was a tad more manipulation involved as opposed to genuine emotion. But he was here mentor, he was her savior – the only man, the only king, the only god she could ever worship – and he had granted her eternal paradise. No longer did a beating heart exist within her, but she swore she felt something quiver within as though it were still there. She loved him, truly. He was the giver of gifts which the world could never offer, the world could never satisfy her with. But he had, and for that she would weep – if she could.

"Beloved," she called out for him, enamored an voice with a nostalgic tone of child-like glee; it was a tone he had not heard in years, not since she was his pupil.

A single arm outstretched, hand offered outwards for her to take and to help her off the pillar. There was but the faintest hint of a smile, golden gleaming eyes relaxed with a different sort of content.

"Welcome to immortality." he spoke to her once she took hold of his hand, as though it were a wedding vow.

. . .

He was content, but for different reasons as opposed to she; it was true, he would no longer hear her persistent whining and accusations of him purposely delaying this process as she aged. She was immortalized to the best of his abilities, although she would more than likely need a stone every few decades or so to revitalize her youth in the event that his calculations were off. And that would be of no matter, so long as she remained loyal and continued to serve her use as a means of companionship.

She was free, free from the boundaries of mortality. And he was free, free from the intoxicating hold of her.

He had purged himself of love, his love for her. In turn, he had gifted it to her. She was to reap these rewards, for being a fine student and even more fascinating human, to have held onto his attention for as long as what he had. She was now the embodiment of his love itself, an additional emotion he hadn't realized beforehand that could be so threatening. Now it was taken care of.

Soon, he could begin the purging of his flaws, his vices, his sins.

And these embodiments – these _children_ – would be a fine gift for Dante; a family, a future that which mother and father dearest could looking forward to in this rebuilt world.

. . .

 _fin_


End file.
